Sometimes there are things you convince yourself you just don't have a knack for. For years, for me, that has been cooking bacon. Bill was good at cooking bacon, so I let him do it. I believed I was bad at it. He moved out last March, and this summer I dedicated myself to getting over that negative self-belief, to learn how to cook bacon.
This morning, one week after the last of Bill's stuff has finally left the house, I sat down to a meal of perfectly cooked bacon*, fried eggs, toast, apple cider, and white grapefruit that I peeled, slice by slice, just for me. I sat in my house, looking out at my yard, eating a meal cooked by me and for me, all by myself.
And it felt really good.
It was also interesting to me that I was sitting at the green-topped folding table that I believe we used as our kitchen table back in that first Chicago burbs apartment, bringing a sense of continuity between those two beginnings. I'm optimistic that this beginning will lead to good things, just like that other one did, even though we eventually decided to end our partnership.
I will focus on the good, think hopeful thoughts, and remind myself to question the times when the little voice inside tells me that I'm just not good at something. I think I'll go grab another piece of bacon.
* Perfectly cooked bacon, in my book, has no burnt parts but is crispy enough that you can break it up with your fork.